


Holiday Ficlets: Just What Smirkdoctor Ordered

by Smirkdoctor (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, Gingerbread murder, Mirror Sex, Mondegreens and their consequences, Multi, Parentlock, Rosie the detective, Unilock the unlicensed masseur, being a parent is hard, belstaff origin story, candy cane undies, conspiring before a fire, holiday ficlets, misuse of expensive scotch, multishipping madness, mycroft has cold feet, prelude to phone sex, snl references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-09 15:19:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 11,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12890712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Smirkdoctor
Summary: A sundry collection of short holiday fics prompted by missdaviswrites. There's a bit of everything here, and the next several works I'll be posting will pull out individual storylines and consolidate them into single-post stories to make searching easier. Such is the danger of aggressive multishipping :)





	1. Peppermint (Greg and Molly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and peppermint prove too tempting a combination for Greg to resist.

Molly Hooper had a small vial of peppermint oil in her top right desk drawer for cases  _ exactly _ like this one. 

The body delivered just five minutes ago, fished from the Thames and having been in the river for a good month, judging by the state of it, was already permeating the entire morgue with a horrible, putrid smell. And Molly had been tipped off by the courier that she needed to complete an autopsy soon, because  _ Sherlock Holmes _ thought the stomach contents of this gentleman held the key to a string of serial murders.

There was nothing else for it. Molly retrieved the oil, removed the screw cap, and tipped a bit onto her right index finger. As she stepped back into the dissection area, she swiped a shiny path of peppermint beneath each of her nostrils and, without thinking, adjusted her small gold necklace to sit correctly so it wouldn’t distract her from her work.

Sighing, she snapped on a pair of size small nitriles, settled her goggles on her wrinkled nose, and picked up her scalpel for the Y-incision.

*~*~*

Greg Lestrade entered the Barts’ morgue and fell immediately into a coughing fit. 

He pulled the lapel of his peacoat over his face and concentrated on pulling oxygen from the thick, putrid air. His head became less cloudy after a couple measured breaths, but he had to blink several times to clear the tears from his vision.

“Christ, Molly, I’m sorry.” A brunette head snapped up at his voice, her deep concentration broken. She smiled and Greg felt a small bit of warmth settle beneath his sternum. 

He shook his head and focused back on the task at hand, at the rather spectacularly  _ open _ sternum of the body on the slab.

While he floundered, Molly had removed her gloves and goggles, and was completing an elaborate hand-washing ritual at the large steel-basin sink near the door.

“If I’d known how bad the smell was gonna be…” he grasped at an apology and pinked at the ears as Molly shook her head and led him, hand on bicep, through the door to her office.

“You’d have what? Stopped me from performing my duty? It’s my  _ job _ , Gregory Lestrade!” She released him at the doorway, then closed the door behind them, blessedly cutting off the scent. 

“It’s the strangest thing...” she began as she grabbed her tablet off the desk, then used her fingertip to tap into a window and scroll efficiently. “Yes! I  _ knew _ I’d seen this before!”

“What?” Greg stepped up to look over her shoulder and inhaled sharply. 

What  _ was _ that? Shampoo and woman and musk and...was that  _ peppermint _ ? 

Whatever the mixture, it would have been delicious on any day, and the contrast with the recent assault on his senses only served to draw him closer. He leaned forward and ran the tip of his nose along Molly’s nape, inhaling deeply.

“Greg?” Molly sounded as if  _ she _ were now struggling for air.

“Mmmmmm?” An interrogative murmur breached his parted lips just before he pressed them against her skin.

*~*~*

Molly shivered in spite of the warm toastiness of a wool-clad detective inspector behind her. The touch of gentle lips on her neck had her drawing a deep breath and turning to position her lips on his in response.

How had she never  _ seen _ Greg? The attractive silver-haired man had been on the periphery of her life for  _ five years _ now, and she’d never even considered that it might feel this  _ right _ to rest in his arms.

Sherlock had been such a distraction. 

But as Greg moaned quietly and Molly opened her mouth and arched her body to welcome his exploration, she decided she had had  _ quite enough _ distraction. 

And not nearly enough peppermint yet this holiday season.


	2. Shopping/Wish List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha Hudson is a formidable shopping partner, but at least Molly is in good hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're staying in the same timeline/pairing as yesterday. Seems I'm not quite finished with Mollstrade.

_ I really should have kept quiet.  _ Molly thought as she struggled to keep up with Martha Hudson.

The woman was something to behold when she was on a mission, and since Molly let slip that she would be DI Lestrade’s date to the annual NSY holiday ball, Martha had taken it upon herself to find Molly the absolute sexiest outfit possible.

So here they were in the ladies’ section of Marks and Spencer, and here they had been for--Molly surreptitiously glanced at her watch--  _ four _ hours, Rosie Watson in tow, her buggy’s handle serving double duty as a clothing rack for a sparkly black dress and silver shrug. 

Molly blew a stray piece of fringe out of her eyes as she leaned over to check on Rosie, who was (blessedly) sleeping, the remnants of a lollipop all over her front. 

Molly smiled at the sweet girl, and at the success of the shopping trip. She  _ had _ looked great in that dress. And the end was in sight: they were down to shoes.

Molly straightened to standing, squared her shoulders, and put on a burst of speed as Martha disappeared around a corner fifty feet in front of her. She even hummed a happy little holiday tune as she approached the corner and turned…

into the lingerie department.

“ _ Martha! _ ” she hissed. “ _ Absolutely _ not!”

The older woman feigned innocence as she strolled toward a display of fur-lined brassieres.

“My  _ intimates _ are perfectly adequate! And...and including them in today’s shopping is  _ horribly _ presumptuous…” 

Molly’s words trailed off as her eyes caught a bra and panty set patterned in swirling red and white peppermint stripes. From a small red bow between the cups dangled a silver candy cane. And as she looked closer, she could see a corresponding charm on each of the tiny strips of elastic making up the sides of the matching g-string.

“Oh, good choice!” Martha grinned as she grabbed a set off the rack. Molly ran her hand across the silky cups and felt her cheeks heating even as a small smile crossed her lips.

Peppermint just kept popping up in the oddest places.

“Molly, dear…” Martha’s voice was breathy with giggles as she elbowed Molly, pointing across the aisle to a rather well endowed male mannequin whose... _ package _ was on display in a red satin thong. 

“Have you given Greg a wish list yet?”


	3. All Dressed Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Greg make quite an entrance at the New Scotland Yard holiday ball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, the Lestrolly feels are eating my brain. I think I have to get these two to a love scene before they'll let me move on. Enjoy the continued cuteness!

“Just breathe,” Greg whispered against Molly’s ear as he slipped an arm around her waist. “Everyone’s a friend here.”

While the statement was true, he knew that wouldn’t save the two of them from a good deal of friendly ribbing when they entered the hall together. 

This was the first time since his divorce-- hell, since two years  _ before _ his divorce-- that he had a date for the Yard’s annual holiday do. Greg sneaked a glance down at Molly’s outfit and gave himself a mental pat on the back.  _ Well done, mate.  _

If he was honest with himself, he’d had eyes for the pretty, young pathologist since that maniac Sherlock Holmes had brought them into each other’s orbit five years ago. 

But he’d been unhappily married then, and by the time he wasn’t, both he and the consulting detective had been humiliated in the media and Sherlock had jumped off a building, adding what felt like two decades to his life. And what would Molly have wanted with a grey-haired old man?

So he’d kept his desires in check, avoided wayward glances, and kept his interest in her well-being professional and appropriate. That is, until a wayward whiff of peppermint had left him literally nosing at her neck. He’d expected her turning to end with a smack directly to his face, and he’d been oh-so-pleasantly surprised when their lips connected instead.

Since then, over the course of two cups of coffee, one date for dinner and drinks, and countless texts, he had learned the rather astounding fact that Molly Hooper’s fascination with him nearly mirrored his with her. 

_ We’ve been such idiots _ he’d breathed against those lips the last time he walked her to her door.

_ Yeah.  _ She whispered back, looking up at him with soft eyes. And then he was cupping her beautiful face in his hands and  _ gazing _ at her.

_ Come to the ball with me? _

_ I wasn’t aware you were a fairy tale prince. _

Molly raised her left eyebrow and bit her lower lip coyly and Greg caught his breath as want hit him in the gut. He should be the one nibbling at that lip, so he gathered her more closely and did just that, muttering between soft nips.

_ You know what I mean, Molls. _ He groaned as she nipped back and she giggled. _ I want to show you off. _

She lifted a hand and ran it over his fluffy pate.  _ My silver-haired caveman. Of course I’ll come. _

And here she stood, in a form-fitting black dress topped with a silver jacket, the outfit completed by frankly ridiculous red shoes. She looked like sex on heels. And she was on  _ his _ arm.

They walked through the doors and the chatter fell into an honest-to-God hush for several seconds until a wolf-whistle split the air. Greg snapped his head toward the source in time to see Sally Donovan removing two fingers from her beaming mouth. 

Greg tightened his grasp on Molly’s slim waist, planted a smooch on her blushing cheek, and made his way toward the homicide crowd, grinning like the cat who caught the canary.

Happy holidays indeed.


	4. Winter Sports

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally some action! Unfortunately, it's sports-related. Or is it?

Molly could not remember how this got started. 

One minute, she’d been chatting with a group of Scotland Yard detectives, and the next, she found herself slammed against the mirrored back wall of the lift, ascending toward the room which Greg had, apparently, secured for tonight  _ just in case. _

There was something about...winter sports. Philip Anderson and Greg were talking about  _ hockey _ , of all things. But she and Sally Donovan had been having a fairly interesting conversation about figure skating. 

It turned out that they were both forced into lessons at age four but never made it past slow turns and backward skating. After a few minutes spent bemoaning weak ankles and bruised bums, they moved on to chatting about movies; specifically, the best ice skating movie ever made, a love story between a failed hockey player and a partner-less pairs figure skater.

“I don’t care if it’s cheesy and obviously earmarked as early 90’s. I will love it  _ forever _ !” Molly declared, gesturing with her glass of white wine, causing it to splash slightly over the side.

“You’ll love  _ what _ forever?” Greg was suddenly by her side, rescuing the glass from her passionate movements.

Molly blushed, embarrassed at having been caught out in the midst of some  _ very silly _ fangirling. She looked at Sally, who was suddenly mum on the subject. She sighed, defeated, and turned back to her date.

“It’s nothing. Just this silly American ice skating movie from the 1990’s…”

“What, you mean  _ The Cutting Edge _ ?”

Molly stared, agog, as Greg shrugged, “I love that film.”

And that was what pushed her into action. This  _ brilliant _ man needed to get some tonight. And  _ she _ needed to be the one giving it to him. 

She grasped the back of his head and pulled him down into a blazing kiss.

With a muffled grunt, Greg placed the glass on a nearby table and began walking her backward toward the ballroom’s exit.

The kiss remained hard and hot all the way to the fifth floor. Thankfully, their room for the evening was only two doors from the lift. 

Greg worked some brilliant police magic to open the old-fashioned keyed entry, and they stepped into the quiet darkness. 

Molly moved her hands from Greg’s waist to his wonderfully plump arse and squeezed. She sucked in a deep breath as he ground himself against her and snuck his fingers under the bottom seam of her body-hugging dress.

“I lied earlier.” He panted against her neck, pausing for a second in his quest to mark that wonderfully pale skin.

“What?” Molly struggled to resurface from her fog of lust. Alarm bells were trying to go off, but weren’t sufficient to gain her attention.

Greg licked along her collarbone and laughed softly. “I lied when I said hockey was my favorite winter sport.”

Molly could not, for the life of her, grasp why he was talking about this  _ now _ , and uttered a small, questioning noise of frustration.

“Yeah...” Greg slid down her cap sleeves and smiled brightly as he revealed her candy cane bra. “My _real_ favorite winter sport would have to be…” he paused to suck another love bite above her left breast… “ _sex_.”


	5. Decorating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Greg and Molly get down to business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, teh sexy sex. Happy Holidays!

Molly felt like she would melt into a shimmering pool of want if she didn’t experience the fullness, the pressure, of Greg inside her right _now_.

Their foreplay had been brief, consisting mostly of hands groping to find zippers, buckles, clasps, and seams. But they were both finally naked, stumbling over discarded shoes toward the bed. Molly reached down to circle his cock with her entire hand, stroking feather-light over the scorching flesh, and Greg groaned in approval.

“God yes. That’s my clever girl.” She smiled and pulled her lips back to gauge the distance to the bed, then took advantage of his distraction to pivot their bodies and push him down onto the mattress.

She stepped back to take in the delectable picture of her detective inspector, hair pulled a million different directions, pupils dilated, body flushed from his cheeks down to his proud erection. She licked her lips as she let her gaze linger on that most appetizing of parts.

He looked delicious, edible, sexy...and he also looked upside down, his head resting at the foot of the bed. But Molly had little time to think about sex in _unorthodox_ configurations before he was pulling her down on top of him, aligning their bodies and thrusting lightly against her.

Five minutes and two quick bursts of oral sex later, Molly was in heaven as Greg finally slid between her legs and inside her body. They were on their knees, his body cradling her from behind and he rocked slowly, advancing and retreating within her.

And every clench of the powerful muscles of his thighs and buttocks, every micro-expression crossing his handsome face was on display just for her in the large mirror positioned in the wall across from the end of the bed.

Greg caught Molly’s eyes in the mirror, then dropped his gaze to the apex of her thighs. He flung one arm low around her waist and pressed his hand flat against her lower abdomen.

“Oh fuck yes,” he groaned, lifting his eyes to stare into her very soul. “I can feel me inside of you.” Molly’s felt her vision go a bit hazy then, and he moved his hand to apply a callused fingertip to her clitoris. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, and he moved to kiss and suckle at her jaw.

 _Mmmmmmmm_ Molly sounded like she was tasting the most rich, creamy chocolate dessert in her memory as she ground back onto Greg’s cock then forward into his hand. And suddenly, even though she didn’t particularly want it to be over, it was enough.

She moaned, low and wanton, as her hips stuttered. She managed to repeat her grinding motion once...twice more, then she was coming, thrusting back so he filled her completely as the internal contractions overwhelmed her and her nipples tingled.

She opened her eyes mid-orgasm and looked at Greg in time to see his lips go slack and his body jerk uncontrollably. She covered the arm on her abdomen with her left hand and brought her right up to caress his nape.

When his body had finished its wild race to completion, he opened his eyes and regarded her with the sweetest expression, nearly disbelieving. He kissed her whisper-soft and manuevered them gently onto the mattress, pulling out and stepping away to dispose of the condom.

Surveying the scene from the mess of the king-sized bed, sprawled on top of a decadent feather-stuffed duvet, Molly began to giggle. Greg harrumphed, affecting offense that she was disrupting their post-coital haze, and the silly expression in his face made her laugh even harder.

Greg growled and launched himself back onto the bed, landing with his weight on his hands to hover over Molly. But he was smiling as he leaned down to kiss her forehead. “What’s gotten into you?”

A fresh set of giggles burst forth and she leaned up kiss his left bicep before circling it with both hands and collapsing back, a saucy expression on her face. “You mean, besides _you_?”

Greg groaned and flopped onto his back, draping a well-muscled arm across her torso and drawing soft designs onto her stomach. Her giggles faded and she kissed his temple, then nudged his head with her nose, directing his eyes toward the hotel room door.

Molly’s candy cane bra dangled from the doorknob along with his festive red tie, and her slinky black dress and topper were laid across the back of the couch. His suit jacket and white shirt were a crinkled mess just inside the door, his trousers—belt still in the loops— were draped over the television, and his own red-and-white striped boxer briefs were precariously hanging from the headboard of their love nest.

He huffed out a laugh and turned to tuck his face into the warm, soft curve of Molly’s shoulder. “I guess we did a pretty good job of decorating.”


	6. Cold (Mycroft)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, even the British government falls ill once in a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure where the rest of the month will take us, but here's a lovely little scene between the Holmes brothers, with some Rosie Watson thrown in because the holiday season makes me sappy. And I'm currently sick, so if I have to suffer, my characters should, too!

_ Cold  _ was a word many people used when describing Mycroft Holmes. Indeed, the reputation he strove to cultivate was that of the Ice Man: emotionless, glacial...immovable. But in actuality, he was just as human as the next man, and there could be no better reminder than his body’s  _ unacceptable  _ response to the occasional seasonal virus.

Sitting, quietly miserably, behind his giant desk, Mycroft sniffled, grabbed yet another tissue to wipe his raw, reddened nose, and then sneezed, a great roaring thing. He shook his head and let it droop pathetically between hunched shoulders, losing the battle to pull air through swollen nasal passages. He opened his eyes and had to quickly grab another tissue to catch a stray mucus dribble just before it fell onto the document he was attempting to review. 

He blinked down at the page, but the cloudy mental and physical fatigue he felt combined with the mydriatic effect of his decongestant made it impossible to focus on the dense blocks of jargon. Defeated, he let his forehead fall forward to rest on the soft nest of paper.

*~*~*

Sherlock was used to remaining silent in the halls of the Diogenes Club, but Rosamund Watson was not. She was turning a simple in-and-out mission (to chastise his brother’s proposed arrangement for a holiday dinner with Mummy) into  _ quite  _ an ordeal, because apparently her squeals of glee at every new thing she came across was “adorable” and worthy of whispered praise, even in this place of silent contemplation.

But as he looked down at John Watson’s daughter, who, at less than a year old, had the fine motor skills to grasp the shiny green leaf of a decorative ficus in one hand while running the other hand’s fingers along its veiny underside. A natural investigator, indeed. 

Sherlock swelled with pride and pressed a sneaky kiss to the crown of her head. In response, the child looked up and cooed, a bright three-toothed smile gracing her angelic face. He allowed a besotted smile back, but quickly realized his slip, clearing his throat and glancing around to make sure no one had noticed.

“Yes, Watson,” he whispered. “It’s a ficus. But, amazing as it may be, we must stay as  _ quiet  _ as possible.”

Rosie nodded solemnly and mimicked his finger-to-lips motion, which set him smiling again  _ and  _ moistened his eyes with love for his best friend’s child. Really, this sentimentality was getting ridiculous. With an infant strapped to his chest and as much dignitity as he could muster, Sherlock strode across the entryway and hit the button for the elevator, preparing to descend to his dear brother’s office.

~~

Sherlock knew something was amiss the moment the doors glided open. He heard  _ snoring _ , of all things, from just down the hall. They stopped just outside the door to Mycroft’s office, confirming that the out-of-place noise was coming from within, and he and Rosie regarded each other quizzically. He knocked briskly and turned the knob to enter. 

Rosie cooed in delight at the sight of her “Uncle Mycroft”, but Sherlock was more than a bit concerned. His brother was flushed, head down on his desk, and he was  _ drooling  _ onto something that looked to be a trade agreement. 

Sherlock shook his head, taking in the used tissues filling the waste basket as well as the small amount of vitamin C powder that had spilled out of the glass of water that sat next to Mycroft’s elbow.

Channeling his inner doctor (his  _ John _ ), he approached and placed a cool hand against Mycroft’s cheek. His brother jolted straight awake and promptly began a rather horrifying attack of coughing. Rosie jerked and flailed her arms in alarm, and Sherlock tried and failed to hide his concern as the attack stretched more than thirty seconds and his brother’ face turned an alarming shade of red.

“ _ Mycroft _ .” He received a very condescending look from a man who was currently incapable of drawing breath on his own. “You have a  _ cold _ .”

Finally the coughing ended, allowing Mycroft several gasping breaths. When he was able, he levelled a look at his brother and said, “What’s the phrase, brother mine.... _ No shit, Sherlock _ ?”


	7. Christmas Cards (Jolto)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The holidays just don't feel like the holidays without at least one Christmas card from a loved one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh! This is my first Jolto EVER. *hides behind hands until you've finished*

John Watson and James Sholto had started their card exchange while they were stationed in Afghanistan. They knew it was corny, but it happened as a result of John not receiving any cards from his family. (And really, who would have sent him seasonal greetings? His dead, alcoholic father? His absent-since-childhood mother? His actively alcoholic, queen-of-bad-decisions kid sister?) 

No, it was actually a relief to John when holiday packages started arriving and he  _ didn’t _ receive any. The omission made it easier to believe that he had really and truly left that life behind for an exciting new world of heroism and noble ideals.

But James Sholto cared about his men. And when he got word that every man in the camp save Clark, who was a Jehovah’s Witness-- God help him, irony fully intended-- and John Watson had received a holiday care package...well, he worried. 

There was something a little quiet about John, something a little desperate in those dark blue eyes, squinted as the were against sun and sand, but still managing to project loneliness. 

Yes, James needed to help. So he did what good soldiers did-- he bargained and traded and scavenged, and, on Christmas eve, he pulled John aside from the merriment and presented him with a stocking.

“What’s this, then, sir?” John asked, confused.

“Just a little something for the holiday, Watson.” James smiled as John held the bulky, bulgy khaki-colored sock aloft by a corner, letting it rotate slowly. The commanding officer suddenly remembered something and, reaching into his left breast pocket, pulled out a small envelope. “Can’t forget the card, can I?”

John took it and turned it over, seeming to weigh the balance of sentiment between the sock and the flimsy cardstock before opting to open the card. James grimaced slightly. It really was a horrible card, some 1980’s piece of rubbish with Garfield offering a lasagna to Odie while wearing a Santa hat, but the markets of Kandahar weren’t the most discerning in terms of Western holiday greetings.

But there, in the dry warmth of a desert night, John Watson looked as his senior officer and began to laugh. James found the near-giggle infectious, and soon the two men were laughing so hard they had to lean together as they walked to an empty table in the canteen to explore the contents of the army sock. They indulged in the small bottle of cheap whiskey, the clove cigarettes, the always-treasured MRE fudge brownies, and the pack of playing cards until early morning. 

And if the walk to John’s tent barracks ended with a brief kiss that James hadn’t entirely intended (but had undoubtedly wanted)...well, there was no one there but the two of them. And they could always blame it on the mistletoe that Murphy, the only openly gay man in the unit, had hung at the tent door-- eyes waggling-- leading to a shared laugh between the men.

The next Christmas abroad was even less festive for John. He was in a room decorated with tinsel and holly, even a mini Christmas tree, so the intention of light and joy was there. But it was hard to feel merry when one was in hospital recovering from the multiple surgeries required to recover from his gunshot wound. 

The mail courier made his rounds on December 24th, and John had to look twice to believe it when a plain white envelope landed on his chest. He opened it to another 80’s card, this one featuring Brainy Smurf on a step-ladder, holding mistletoe over Smurfette and Handy Smurf, with the caption “Hope you Have a Smurfy Holiday” in glitter-print along the bottom. 

John opened the card and choked back a sob as he read the handwritten message inside.

“Merry Christmas...Love, James”


	8. Gingerbread (Christmas at 221 Baker Street, Johnlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not even Christmas cookie decorating can be typical when Sherlock Holmes is involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't have the prompt list, and I misremembered and wrote this on the plane. So this is a substitute prompt. But it's still cute.

John grinned to himself as he opened the door to 221 Baker Street to the scent of fresh-baked goodness. In order to accomplish his holiday shopping, he had left Rosie in the company of Mrs. Hudson. Martha had decided to dedicate the day to baking all the cookies the entire neighborhood could possibly need for every holiday until the end of time. Rosie had been so very excited about the possibility of decorating sugar cookies shaped like snowmen and angels, and even more about building a gingerbread house.

However, there was no answer to his knock at 221A. And the knob remained immobile, locked, when he tried to open the door. 

“What the…?” John muttered before giving up and trudging up the stairs. He could at least drop off his things before embarking on the Adventure of the Missing Toddler.

But as he passed the creaky fifth step, he heard laughter: a high, tinkling giggle paired with a deep baritone rumble. On the twelfth stair, he heard the squeal Rosie made only when she was very pleased...or when she was being tickled mercilessly. 

Happily curious, he popped his head through the kitchen door and saw Rosie and Sherlock, their heads together (both with a slight dusting of powdered sugar) over a rather elaborate cookie-based construction. He cleared his throat and the two of them snapped to attention, looking quite too guilty for his taste.

“What’s going on here...and where is Mrs. Hudson?” 

Sherlock wiped his hands on a damp dishcloth before making a move toward Rosie’s face. The mess there was terrible: layers of frosting, crumbs, and sprinkles drying into a flaky mess. But the toddler ducked and squealed so much that Sherlock gave it up as a loss.

“Martha went out for more supplies.” He glanced at Rosie, who clapped two sticky hands together with glee. “Seems she needed that green plastic wrap that I... _ appropriated _ to help crack the case of the murderous photographer and his color gels.”

John rolled his eyes, but couldn’t quite hide his smile. That  _ had _ been a good case, and Sherlock had been brilliant to solve it. He leaned down to kiss Rosie, then licked stray blue sprinkles off his lips, “Mmmmmm, our girl is soooo sweet.”

But as his tongue moved over his lips, he got a closer look at the cookie display that had been captivating his flatmate and daughter. The gingerbread house was lacking a roof, and there was a decapitated gingerbread man lying inside, with red icing splattered so as to suggest blood. 

“Sherlock…” John couldn’t tear his eyes from the gory scene. “What is this?”

Sherlock suddenly took an intense interest in a bowl of fudge batter. He dipped a finger in the mixture and placed it in his mouth so he wouldn’t have to answer John.

“Is this…” John glanced between the two of them, his mouth gone a bit slack. “Is this a cookie crime scene?”

Rosie clapped and said, “Murder!” as Sherlock’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head.

John shook his head and grabbed Sherlock, placing one hand on his hip, the other going to the wrist attached to the finger in his mouth. It came out with a pop and Rosie giggled. 

“But John!” Sherlock’s voice took on a whiny quality. “To me, a good murder makes it  _ feel like _ Christmas.”

And as Rosie clapped and the street door banged open with a resounding “Yoohoo!” from Mrs. Hudson, John decided that Christmas glee was Christmas glee and family was family. So he ruffled Sherlock’s sugar-dusted curls before pulling the man down into a good old-fashioned Christmas snog.


	9. All Wrapped Up (Sherlolly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to take the non-traditional route when shopping for his new girlfriend for Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing Molly and Sherlock when there's a hilarious cultural mismatch. They're just so cute!

The laughter echoing out of Greg Lestrade’s office was nearly deafening, the type of contagious mirth that led to broken, gasping sentences, but it began to die out as soon as Sherlock’s shadow graced the threshold. He viciously stared down several members of the homicide division, telegraphing with slitted eyes just how much he disdained their tearful merriment, their pedestrian enjoyment of low-brow entertainment.

The group filed rapidly out, until only Philip Anderson and Greg Lestrade remained, both barely restraining themselves and rapidly closing a laptop which had been playing some light pop/soul music while avoiding each other’s eyes.

“What inanity has incapacitated an entire investigative department this time?” Greg hunched under the censure of Sherlock’s words. He shook his head and chanced a glance at Anderson, which was a huge mistake. The other man’s red face set him off again. As the latest giggle attack erupted, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

The two Scotland Yard employees managed, slowly, to gather themselves together enough to converse somewhat intelligibly, and Sherlock turned with a dramatic coat swish to settle on Lestrade’s couch, lifting his chin imperiously and asking, ”So…?”

“Don’t bother showing him, Greg. He won’t understand anyway.” Anderson spit on his way out of the office, followed by a slam of the door behind him.

Greg stepped back behind his desk and opened a drawer to retrieve the case file he wished to discuss. He cleared his throat and was about to begin when Sherlock grabbed the laptop out from beneath his arms.

“Oi! Drop it!” Greg made a pointless grab at the device, watching with a mix of horror and embarrassment as Sherlock opened the computer and propped it on his left knee. 

“Let me guess...it is the Week’s Greatest Kitten Fails again?”

“Not...quite.” Greg could feel his cheeks reddening as he saw Sherlock’s eyes search out and land on the “Just Played” list. 

One long, slim finger hovered, ready to click, then looked up to ask, “What in creation is ‘Dick in a Box’?”

*~*~*

Molly wasn’t sure whether the gift she’d gotten for Sherlock was appropriate. They had finally discussed the fateful phone call-- the one that led them both to confess their feelings-- and their relationship had begun officially only three months ago.

Shopping for a boyfriend of three months for Christmas was a chore to begin with, and shopping for Sherlock Holmes...well, it was  _ almost _ too much. But as Molly walked back into her sitting room with her wrapped gift (a case of hard-to-find Turkish cigarettes that she’d had to circumnavigate a trade embargo to obtain), she was feeling confident about her selection.

But one glance at Sherlock ripped her from her thoughts. She audibly gasped and dropped the carefully wrapped package. 

The detective was...well, she guessed the right term was _ sprawled _ on her sofa, both arms along the back, legs wide in resplendent man-spreading. His face held a self-satisfied “resist me if you can” grin. And between his legs, seemingly defying gravity, was a red box with a large silver bow.


	10. Eggnog/Food and Drink (Mycroft)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes hates Christmas for many reasons. First among them might be the proliferation of high-calorie, low-quality holiday "treats".

Mycroft Holmes hated Christmas for many reasons, but the overabundance of mass-produced, faux-gourmet, calorie-filled “treats” topped the list. Even at a workplace that strove for austerity and peak physical and mental health like MI-5, the holiday season had its effect. As the calendar moved toward December 25th, cookies, fruitcakes, and chocolates started to appear on desks and in mailboxes.

To be honest, he had never met a sweet he didn’t like. He simply chose to focus on those made with peak ingredients and skill. Indulging in small bites of exquisite treats helped to maintain both his image as a discerning upper-crust citizen and his waistline.

So when he entered the kitchen of 221B to see Sherlock hovering over a bowl of eggnog with a 30-year-old Macallan, it was unavoidable that he would drop his brolly and move faster than light to rescue the bottle from his idiot brother’s idle hands.

“Brother mine,” he sneered, locked in a battle for the good reputation of the Holmes family, tipping the neck of the bottle back vertical and capping it efficiently. “Are you all out of Rebel Yell with which to spike this *sniff* pigswill?”

Sherlock huffed and turned toward John. The other man, who stood from his repose before the fire and shrugged lightly, then did a double-take when he saw the label on the bottle. 

“Holy hell, Sherlock. Don’t use that…” He turned to dig in a cabinet, producing a more suitable bottle of spirits. The detective shrugged, upended the half-full bottle into the egg and milk mixture, and began to stir.

John smiled and shook his head, then turned back to Mycroft, passing the bottle into his watchful care. “I think it would be best if you took charge of this.”

Mycroft hummed and tucked the bottle into his trench coat. “I have an idea of who might properly appreciate this libation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who could Mycroft *possibly* be planning on sharing the Scotch with? 
> 
> (*cough* Lestrade *cough*)


	11. Christmas Carols (Parentlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie is very upset over her school's Nativity play...

Sherlock Holmes knew it was going to be one of  _ those _ evenings as a parent as soon as he opened the door to 221B. He sighed and let his hands fall to his sides in defeat at the sound of a rather epic fit being thrown upstairs in Rosie’s room. He couldn’t quite make out the calming shushings John was sure to be supplying, but Sherlock knew they were there.

He shuffled into the kitchen and placed the celebratory bottle of wine on the worktop. There would be time enough to pop a cork and drink to the newly imprisoned criminal they had been pursuing for the past week. He shrugged out of his coat and scarf, taking the time to don a dressing gown before mounting the stairs to confront the situation.

The door stood open a crack, and through the small space Sherlock glanced a scene that warmed his heart even as his teeth gritted at Rosie’s wails. John was sitting on the rose-colored bedspread with their daughter in his lap, her (presumably) tear-covered face buried in his jumper. John rubbed her back in slow circles and murmured into her hair. When he heard the door open fully, he looked up and smiled a tiny bit.

“We’re not so happy with the Nativity play casting,” John informed before placing his lips back to Rosie’s locks.

Sherlock grinned back, reassured with the knowledge that no one had succumbed to physical harm or bullying. He wrapped his robe tie a bit tighter around his middle and sat down next to his husband.

“It this true, Watson?” John grinned widely at the name Sherlock persisted in calling their daughter despite the fact that he had adopted her nearly a year earlier.

Rosie turned slightly and nodded. Her face was wet and pink, her small eyes red, the saddest expression Sherlock had ever seen gracing her features.

“And what part  _ did _ you get?” Sherlock kept his eyes on her face.

She gulped and managed to say, voice froggy and thick with tears, “Wise man.”

Sherlock glanced up at his husband. “And that’s...an undesirable role?”

John shrugged, but Rosie nodded emphatically.

“And what part did you want?”

“The grazing mule!!” Rosie wailed, turning her face back to John’s chest as her tears started anew.

“Is the mule highly significant in the nativity?” Sherlock wrinkled his forehead as he tried his best to remember. This particular segment of Christianity rarely figured in crimes, so he’d let his detailed knowledge atrophy, but he didn’t seem to recall the animals of the Christmas story doing much more than standing around, watching.

Rosie looked up and gulped, nodding so hard that Sherlock swore heard her brain rattle. “It’s in the song!!”

John also seemed puzzled by this. “Which song, sweetie? The First Noel? Joy to the World? I don’t remember a mule in either of those.”

Rosie shook her head miserably, the pain of the casting slight obviously being compounded by the ignorance of her fathers.

She rolled her eyes and huffed. “No! The  _ grazing mule _ is from Deck the Halls!”

Sherlock could see John humming the melody beneath his breath, still quite puzzled.

“Could you sing it for us, sweetheart?”

Rosie suddenly brightened. She loved to sing, especially Christmas songs. She sat up straight and belted out, “See the grazing mule before us, fa la la la la...la la la la! Strike the harp and join the chorus, fa la…” She trailed off as she realized that both men were struggling not to laugh.

Seeing his daughter’s lower lip begin to wobble, John was quick to wrap her in his arms once again. “Oh, Rosie, we’re sorry. But the words are ‘see the blazing yule before us…’”

Sherlock wrapped both of them in a long-limbed hug, kissing John sweetly on the lips before brushing a smooch on Rosie’s cheek. “But count on  _ our _ daughter to be distraught over a Mondegreen.”

Rosie sniffed a bit more, and John kissed her hair then looked lovingly at Sherlock before whispering in her ear, “Let Daddy make a call. I’m betting your teacher would be okay with a grazing mule in the Nativity play.”


	12. Winter Wonderland (Mystrade)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to put that bottle of Macallan to good use.

Every so often, especially after an evening at the Holmes-Watson residence, Mycroft got some inane song stuck in his head. He didn’t listen to music with lyrics as a rule, instead enjoying symphonic and chamber music. But he understood that young children enjoyed singing along with their favorite songs. And so, especially at the holidays, songs with trite lyrics played on a loop at 221 Baker Street.

Mycroft entered his home humming quietly, a jazzy little tune about walking down a snow-filled lane beside a loved one. He smiled, remembering the soft peck he had seen his brother exchange with his husband as the song mentioned some nonsense about a snowman acting as a parson. He had rolled his eyes and scoffed at the time, but really, how could he fault his brother for luxuriating in his hard-won happiness?

At the liquor cabinet in his sitting room, he communed with the Macallan he had confiscated from Sherlock’s nefarious grasp, pouring two fingers into a heavy tumbler. He gently tipped a decanter of spring water to add two scant drops, then swirled the concoction gently. He sometimes swore he could smell the Scotch opening up, releasing the secrets of its peaty flavor.

He loosened the laces on his immaculate Italian leather Oxford shoes before picking up his glass to take a tiny sip of the booze, lifting his tongue gently to the roof of his mouth, allowing the taste, the texture, to saturate his taste buds. He walked to the door to slide out of his shoes and left them that way, not even bothering to line them up. He removed his suit jacket and wandered through his foyer toward his library, where his maid had laid a fire and his butler had set the blaze crackling.

With his nose hovering over his glass, he rounded the corner, prepared to slide into the first of two leather armchairs positioned in front of the hearth, and nearly inhaled his drink at the sight of Greg Lestrade sitting in the far chair.

The other man’s silver hair caught the orange light of the fire, reflecting back warmth and a feeling of home as he leaned forward with the poker, moving a smouldering log closer to the central flame. As he sat back, Mycroft heard him gently singing, “Later on, we’ll conspire…” 

Brown eyes met blue, and Greg stopped his song, the left half of his mouth quirking upward in acknowledgement. “Hello, Mycroft. Sherlock mentioned a thirty-year-old bottle of Macallan, and you needing someone to share it?”

Mycroft hid his own grin behind the rim of his drink and took another sip of the liquid, completing the phrase of the song in his head.  _ Dreaming by the fire _ , indeed. He’d have to send Sherlock a thank you present if the evening advanced as he was hoping.


	13. In Front of the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of Lestrade and Mycroft's evening of *conspiring* in front of the fire...

Greg couldn’t be sure if it was the fire that had him feeling such warmth, or the expensive Scotch...or the heated looks he was sharing with the man seated only feet away. He decided not to dwell on it. He slipped out of his shoes and propped his feet on the leather ottoman positioned between the two chairs. This necessitated that he turn more fully toward his drinking partner.

The other man glanced at him, letting his gaze linger on Greg’s lips, then the open collar of his button-down. He seemed to savor the journey down his body, ending on his feet before shooting back up to meet Greg’s eyes with a soft smirk. Mycroft kept eye contact as he lifted his feet and rubbed his great toe softly along the arch of his left foot.

Lestrade sipped in a quick breath, then let it out slowly, suppressing a shiver. He tipped his Scotch glass in a mock salute and quirked his eyebrow before downing the last centimeter of liquid and placing the empty vessel on side table. He lifted his feet, placing them back on the ground and standing, trying to seems purposeful and not wobbly as he crossed to Mycroft’s chair, forcing the other man to abandon the ottoman as well and turn to face him.

Greg used his shins to press between Mycroft’s knees before leaning down ever so slowly, holding his weight on hands braced on the back of the chair’s arms. He stopped with only a breath between their lips, chuckling softly as he clocked Mycroft’s response: the uptick in his breathing rate, eyes stuck on Greg’s mouth, fingers digging deeply into the leather armchair.

Greg closed the gap.

Mycroft’s lips were soft and moist, slightly sticky and smoky with the residue of alcohol, and they slid apart on a sigh. Greg dropped to his knees, necessitating that Mycroft widen the gap between his legs and lean forward, allowing Greg to lace his fingers into the hair at his nape. 

They kissed for long minutes, Greg managing to loosen Mycroft’s belt without breaking the kiss. He reached backed and grasped his bum, pulled him forward into a slouch, allowing him to lower Mycroft’s trousers. He paused with his fingers hooked into the elastic of a pair of forest green boxer briefs, withdrawing from the kiss and cocking an eyebrow.

Mycroft huffed out a breath, brought his hands from Greg’s shoulders up to cradle both sides of his face, and nodded. Greg’s breath caught at the open, excited,  _ hungry _ look in Mycroft’s eyes, the emotions dancing alongside light from the fire. He slid down Mycroft’s pants and his erection sprang free. 

Greg sat back on his heels to regard his gift, enjoying the dance of yellow and orange light over the velvety skin, the shine in a drop of pre-ejaculate gathered at the tip. He reached for Mycroft’s Scotch glass and drained it as well, then caught the other man’s eyes as he licked his lips and swallowed.


	14. Naughty or Nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has been a very good boy...and Greg's about to be quite naughty.

Greg took in a breath through his mouth, allowing some of the Scotch to evaporate off his tongue. He leaned toward Mycroft again, circling the base of his cock with his right thumb and first finger. A soft gasp came from above him, and Greg spared a quick glance as he ran callused fingertips softly over heated flesh. 

Mycroft’s eyes were half-closed over a dream-like, dazed stare. His tongue flicked out to wet his upper lip and Greg moaned. He placed his nose in the patch of kinky, dark auburn hair at the base of Mycroft’s prick and breathed in deeply, growing dizzy with lust. He nudged Mycroft’s penis with his nose, smoothing Eskimo kisses over the velvety skin until a drop of precum fell onto him.

Mycroft groaned, an odd combination of erotic and embarrassed, and Greg released a low, dark chuckle. He caught the moisture with the pad of his right thumb, brought it to his mouth, and sucked. He closed his eyes in pleasure before removing the digit with a lurid pop. Mycroft would forever deny that he whimpered at that visual.

Greg grinned, rose upright to kiss the other man, then leaned in and rasped into his ear, “Mr. Holmes, I hope you’ve been a very nice boy this year.” He toyed the lobe between his teeth, then moved to Mycroft’s shirt to nose into the collar. Nearly panting with anticipation, he licked up the carotid artery with a single, firm stroke. He felt the strong, racing pulse beneath his tongue and savored Mycroft’s shiver as he murmured, “Because I’m going to have such a good time turning you naughty.”

After quickly planting a firm kiss on the other man’s lips, he ducked back down, and, with no warning, took Mycroft to the root, relishing the slide along his soft palate and into his throat. He looked up at the other man and applied suction as he began to bob up and down. 

Mycroft threw his head back and placed his hands on Greg’s scalp, but the hair there was too short and his fingers scrabbled for purchase. Those hands moved instead to his own hair, tugging as he squirmed in pleasure.

Greg watched as he worked the man’s erection into and out of his mouth. After another minute, let him slide out from between his lips and replaced his mouth with his hand. He lay his face on Mycroft’s thigh and began stroking, quick and harsh, enjoying the show.

And the elder Holmes brother put on a wonderful show when aroused. His hands moved down to grasp the arms of the chair once more, and he began to thrust using the power in his forearms, gasping noisy breaths and turning a dark shade of pink as he neared his orgasm.

It had been awhile since Greg did this to anyone but himself, but he could read the signs in his partners, and he kissed gently at the frenulum mere seconds before Mycroft climaxed. While jets of creamy white fluid erupted from the elegant man’s elegant phallus, Greg draped over him, nuzzling into his neck and staring down at his handiwork. 

He continued cradling Mycroft in his palm as he softened and his breathing slowed. When calm had returned, Greg closed his eyes, listening to the crackling fire for a moment before kissing his lover and saying, “You know, I’ve never seen the master bedroom in this place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first blowjob I've ever written in such detail. Ye gods.


	15. The Case of the Frozen Corpse (Parentlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silliness and mayhem abound when the Holmes-Watsons spend a day playing in the snow.

Rosie Watson had the best parents of anyone in her class. She’d spoken with passion on the topic today during their Daily Share Time, when they explained the art they’d drawn for the assignment of “family holiday traditions”. 

She told about when she and Sherlock solved The Murder of the Gingerbread Woman, adding in details about how her fathers had met and fallen in love during a murder investigation. Samuel Lambert had groaned and muttered, “Like we haven’t heard this story six million times before.” 

But Rosie would not be stopped. It was the holiday season, after all. The end of December was about looking back, thinking about the good things in your life, the people you loved, and the opportunities for more fun, more love, more goodness in the new year...or something. Mrs. Hudson had made a speech sort of like that the other night, over very yummy hot chocolate, but she seemed a little bit tired and spoke the words around the cookies she was busy munching.

She finished her talk with the proud announcement, “And today, my daddy is leaving work early so he can take me to the park to build a snowman!” She counted four children with jealous faces and nodded decisively.  _ Obviously _ her fathers were the best parents in London.

 

*~*~*

 

John stood outside Rosie’s school, shoulders hunched slightly against the cold, chatting with another parent as they awaited dismissal. He had a small satchel containing snowman supplies in one hand and a thermos of Mrs. Hudson’s sinfully good hot chocolate in his other. Apparently, she had made a bit too much the previous night while under the influence of an herbal soother. But according to her, it reheated just fine.

The double doors of the brick building nearly flew off their hinges as the concentrated energy of twenty seven-year-olds poured out of the school. It didn’t take long to locate Rosie. She was sprinting toward him, forgotten mittens trailing behind her on the strings that tethered them to her coat, one hand on her stocking cap to keep it on her head.

“Daddy!” She collided with a kneeling John, who immediately wrapped her in a hug. He pulled back from the embrace to gaze down at his daughter, whose beaming face in that moment reminded him so much of Mary. 

He smiled gently and rubbed his cold nose against her warm one. She wrinkled it and squirmed, and John stood, helping her into her mittens and securing her scarf before taking her hand and starting the short walk to Regent’s Park. “Let’s go build that snowman!”

 

*~*~*

 

_ There’s a case. _

 

Impossible. I’m with Lestrade now and there’s nothing new. - SH

 

_ Your assistance is needed immediately. _

 

What does that mean? -SH

John, where are you? - SH

 

_ Regent’s Park.  _

_ Rosie’s with me. _

 

You brought Rosie to a crime scene? I thought you were the responsible parent. - SH

 

_ Just hurry up, Sherlock.  _

_ It could be dangerous. _

 

That’s my line. - SH

 

*~*~* 

 

Sherlock walked the last few metres into the park and glanced around, looking for his daughter’s distinctive hot pink coat. He smiled as he caught sight of it and jogged over. John and Rosie both turned, pink-cheeked and huffing a bit, whether from exertion or from their current giggle fit, he couldn’t tell.

“Well, Watson. Watson.” Sherlock nodded at each of them in turn. “What’s all this about?”

Rosie marched over and slipped her tiny, mitten-covered hand into his, tugging him toward a group of winter-naked trees. “There’s a body, Papa.”

He cast a quick glance at John, who made his face deadly serious and nodded at the two of them. “Yes, DI Watson. It’s time to get this mystery solved.”

Sherlock shook his head and let himself be dragged to the “crime scene”. And when he could finally see the ground in the center of the copse of trees, he began to laugh as well. He bent down to scoop Rosie into his arms as she pointed to the body.

Instead of a traditional, vertically-oriented, snowman, his lovely, deranged family had built a three-dimensional body outline and embellished it with all the signs of death by poisoned cocoa.

Sherlock stood and placed an arm around his husband’s shoulders, pulling him in for a chaste but loving kiss. They stepped apart and watched as Rosie circled the scene, pointing out all the clues. 

John leaned his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and said, “I think I’ll call this one ‘The Case of the Frozen Corpse.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm out-fluffing even myself with this stuff, but I CAN'T STOP. I just love how Rosie changes these two so damn much.


	16. Stuck at Home (Lestrolly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly is quite angry when winter weather cancels her date with Greg. Can the evening be rescued?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! These two are probably my favorite pairing right now...

“Oh, for the love of God!” Molly Hooper turned to stare despairingly out her window at the swirling snowflakes. She glanced back to the alert that had just graced the screen of her phone. Apparently the tube stations were closing down. The Underground  _ never _ closed, and it just happened to occur on the occasion of her first date with Greg Lestrade after the NSY holiday party?

Molly kicked a foot out in frustration, realizing too late that 1) she was not wearing shoes and 2) the leg of her kitchen table was hard and unmoving. 

“Oh, bollocks!” She grabbed her foot, hopped to the sofa, and collapsed. Toby sauntered over in his typical lazy, arrogant fashion, settling on the leg she had crossed over her opposite knee to continue massaging her foot...and meowed imperiously.

“Can I help you, sir?” He stared at her without blinking, then directed his attention toward cleaning his paw thoroughly. 

“Offended by my language?” He met her eyes again and blinked slowly, which Molly took as agreement. 

“Well, then, you can just bugger right off.” Toby jumped to the ground with a loud thump and an angry trill. 

He swaggered through the door to her bedroom (the room she and Greg should have retired to after their dinner and drinks) and Molly barely restrained herself from tossing a throw pillow after him. Instead, she sighed and collapsed lengthwise on the couch, throwing both arms over her face and groaning.

She was rescued from her wallowing by the vibration of her mobile from its place on her chest. She picked it up and saw a text notification from Greg. He was probably trying to arrange a raincheck.  _ Or a snowcheck _ she thought, chuckling without humour. She sighed and swiped the message open...

and lost her breath entirely. 

On the screen was probably the sexiest picture she had ever seen. Greg was shirtless, one of his hands spanning the space between peaked nipples. When she finally managed to draw her eyes up to his face, she gasped. Greg’s eyes were entirely dilated, and his stubble and sex hair were out in force.

As she was busy staring, her phone vibrated again:

_ You still up for our date? _

Molly smiled naughtily, sitting up just long enough to pull her blouse over her head. She then settled back against the pillows, making sure her hair was spread out and her arms were positioned to push her breasts just a bit out of the cups of her cherry-print bra. 

She bit her bottom lip and snapped a picture, quickly sending it off to Greg. Maybe a night stuck at home wouldn’t be so bad after all.


	17. Scarf and Coat (Greg and Sherlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you were to ask Sherlock Holmes where his coat and scarf came from, he would give you one of two answers. But neither of them was the truth.

If you were to ask Sherlock Holmes where his coat and scarf came from, he would give you one of two answers. But neither of them was the truth.

With acquaintances made through The Work, he would weave a tale of familial love and the warmth of a wool coat and cashmere scarf gifted to him his last Christmas in college. Obviously that was bollocks. At that time in his life, he would have traded them for drugs, even if just to get any belonging associated with Mycroft out of his life.

To clients and friends, he might say that he bought the coat with the fee he charged for his first big, international case, solved when he was only nineteen. He had managed to avert a hostile coup in Luxembourg. And, as the story went, he used part of the thousands of pounds to purchase the Belstaff and accessories. This was also patently untrue. As a rule, he didn’t accept monetary reimbursement for his work, and anyone who knew him at all wouldn’t have believed it.

But the truth…

Well, that was simultaneously sad and heartwarming, so he held it close, cherishing the story, unwilling to share it.

*~*~*

One bitterly cold winter night, a detective named Gregory Lestrade wore his new winter coat to work. The wool monstrosity was a gift from his wife, who he had just discovered was cheating, and it didn’t suit him. It also didn’t quite fit, being about an inch too long and too tight across the shoulders. It made Greg wonder if he had even been the intended recipient, or if his wife’s latest jilted lover might look more natural in the garment. 

On his second call of the night, Greg encountered a strung-out stringbean of a man stick-like limbs, pale skin, and dark hair. Taking the young man’s pulse, Greg recognized bradycardia, an early effect of hypothermia. So he whipped off the coat and wrapped the kid’s body tight within it, swaddling him tight before mostly carrying the man to the waiting panda car.

Back at the station, a cup of horrible (but still warm) tea in his hand, the young man solved three cases simply by glancing at the open files on Lestrade’s desk. A bit shell-shocked, Greg had let him go without a drugs charge, only asking for his name and a number where he could be reached for help on tough cases. 

The young man shrugged, shoving his hands deep into the coat’s pockets. He withdrew a blue cashmere scarf and regarded it quizzically before wrapping it around his neck with a flourish. He glanced around the office once again before winking at Lestrade, grabbing the pencil from his hand, and jotting down Mycroft’s number. Then he winked and strode toward the door.

“Eh! Your name, young man?” Lestrade stood behind his desk, hands on hips.

“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, Sherlock. Stay out of cuffs and you can keep the coat.”

Sherlock nodded and smiled, small and soft.

“The scarf...we can make a deal for that later.”

And with an impressive whirl, Sherlock Holmes made his first dramatic exit from New Scotland Yard as Greg Lestrade shook his head, bemused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: I ship Sherstrade pretty hard. So I actually see this going someplace romantic. Maybe Greg will offer Sherlock the scarf in exchange for dinner. Who knows? I also totally looked up Rupert's and Benedict's heights and looked at some pics to compare their shoulder widths. Because of COURSE it would be the measurements that make this story implausible.


	18. Favourite Tradition (Unilock, Johnlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're taking a hard left into some irreverent Unilock here, so beware...
> 
> John Watson's favorite post-finals tradition is a long, relaxing massage. But will his new masseur be more thorough than he expected?

John Watson rolled his shoulders, bringing his hands up to knead at the tight pressure that had been building up over the past two weeks. Finals always did a number on his mind  _ and _ body, and he’d developed a tradition of getting a massage after his last exam. 

So as he walked out of the chemistry building, settling his overloaded bookbag on his shoulders and wincing, he pulled out his mobile and brought up the website for his favorite day spa. 

He ground his molars together, thinking about how Harry had teased him when he said that was where he was headed as he begged off drinks for tonight.

“A  _ day spa _ , Johnny? What is it, pedicure and a facial?”

“Harry, stop…” John didn’t want to resort to telling her that the real reason he wasn’t coming was her lack of control around alcohol.

“Oh, the  _ other _ kind of day spa, huh? Why don’t you just come out with me?” She was nearly whinging now, “Handsome bloke like you should be able to pull...or at least get some sod to suck you off in the loo.”

John caught an older couple giving them shocked looks and decided it was time to take his coffee to go. “Classy as always, Harriet. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Shite!” He stopped mid-stride, staring at the website’s banner “Closed due to illness.” He snapped his phone shut, shoved his hands deep into his back pockets, and began a foot-dragging walk home.

By the time he reached the door, he was desperate enough for stress relief that he was actually considering going out with Harry. If he got drunk quickly, he figured he wouldn’t be embarrassed when she started her usual routine.

“Johnny, what’s the matter?” His flatmate Mike Stamford looked up from his perch on the couch, feet already up, game controller in hand. He pressed pause (a  _ huge _ sign of concern for a uni student) and looked up expectantly, concern writ large on his chubby face.

John allowed the bag to fall from his shoulders and rested his forehead against the flat’s door. “It’s stupid. I just always get a massage after finals, and my place is closed today…” he heaved a great sigh and turned back towards Mike, who was on his feet and headed to his bedroom.

“Just a sec, mate. I might have just the thing.” 

John followed, leaning in another doorway as Mike picked his way over his disastrously cluttered desk. Finally, he snatched up a business card, whirling around and placing it in John’s hand.

“Sherlock Holmes, Evidence-Based Masseur?” John’s eyebrows drew down as he tried to figure if Mike was taking the piss right now.

But there was a smile on his ruddy cheeks and he shrugged, “I’ve never called, but some bloke in my biostats course said it was the best massage he’d ever had...Victor Trevor is his name.”

“Well, I guess it couldn’t hurt to see if he’s got an appointment this afternoon.” John shrugged and pulled his mobile out, quickly dialing the number listed. 

The call picked up after half a ring and a deep-as-sin but bored-sounding voice spoke. “Science of Massage, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will totally be continued. It might even become its own story. God, I'm excited.


	19. Traveling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a continuation from yesterday's ficlet, a 221B because I'm trying to get caught up. Sherlock is a traveling masseur (yeah, it's tenuous, I know...)

John’s mind short-circuited at the sound of that voice.

“Is there a purpose to this call?” The voice sounded angry now, “Or did someone put you up to it? ‘For a good time, call the  _ freak _ …’” He gusted an angry sigh and John rushed to keep him from hanging up.

“No, nothing like that, mate.” John cringed. “A friend gave me your card because I always get wound up during finals, I tie myself into knots. I need someone...some _ thing,  _ I mean...to, umm... release the tension.”

A second passed before the hesitant response. “Alright.”

John sighed, relieved. “So you have an appointment today?”

“Yes, I can come immediately.”

“Wait...what? You’d come  _ here _ ?” John looked around his messy flat.

“Don’t be tedious, John. I don’t care about the state of your dwelling. However, I’m not licensed as a massage therapist, so I don’t have an office. Besides, I often find that clients are only able to  _ completely _ let go in familiar surroundings.”

John knew this last exchange should have set off alarms. How did he know his name? Was it even legal to purchase an unlicensed massage? But somehow he wasn’t concerned, only excited.

“I can be there in thirty minutes, if that’s convenient.”

“Ummmmm…” John glanced at Mike.

“If it’s inconvenient, I’ll be there anyway.” And the connection broke.


	20. Icicles (Mystrade)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I take you now back to the Silver Fox and his stately ginger boyfriend. We'll be back to Massagelock tomorrow, but this prompt just fit these two so damn well...

Greg Lestrade was having a wonderful dream, replaying the evening he and Mycroft had shared, the whole experience awash in the glow of Scotch and intimacy. After their first round in the leather armchairs before the fire, they had skidded, stocking-footed, down the marble-floored hallway and collapsed into a well-appointed mahogany four-poster bed. 

They’d gone again by the quiet glow of London’s lights, their breaths the only sound in the room. After falling horizontal, sated and panting, they’d regained their breath and slipped underneath the thick duvet and between luxurious sheets.

The premise of this entire evening had been one big gamble, predicated on a passing suggestion of Sherlock as he swept away from a crime scene. He’d proposed that his _insufferable_ brother might enjoy the _insufferable_ company of an _intolerably_ _simple_ detective inspector in consuming a kidnapped bottle of Macallan’s.

It was the opportunity Greg had been waiting for. Mycroft Holmes had been catching and holding his eye more and more since he’d served as his silent companion, transporting Mycroft home from Musgrave Hall a few months earlier. He’d never thought of the man as even remotely touchable until the mask of efficient, calm diplomacy fell away after Eurus’s horrible games. The man who remained had been shattered, but the vulnerability on display had been intriguing.... _ appealing _ .

And indeed, the Mycroft from before would not have tolerated Greg inside his home, nor seated in a chair in front of a roaring fire. And he most definitely would not have welcomed Greg between his legs. But last night, their eyes had held a conversation that ended with Mycroft taking his pleasure in Greg.

These glowing images warmed Greg through and through, the heat compounded by the man draped half over his chest. He opened his eyes, lowered his face to the head of ever-so-slightly ginger hair, and kissed the strands.  _ Yes _ , he thought, as he breathed in the other man, their shared scent of sex.  _ He could get used to this _ .

He stretched a bit, lengthening his legs, and turned to position himself as the little spoon. He luxuriated in the strength of Mycroft’s encircling arms and began to drift again on thoughts of the future. He smiled slightly in his half-awake state as he felt Mycroft stir behind him. The elder Holmes brother drew his knees up to more completely cradle Greg’s body.

And Greg  _ yelped _ .

Mycroft Holmes had  _ snow drifts _ for feet and  _ icicles _ for toes, and he was persisting in running them up Greg’s calves. And by this point, Greg knew the bastard was awake, not only because no one could have slept through the noise he had just made, but because Mycroft’s arms were holding him fast.

“I swear on all things governmental, Mycroft Holmes…” Greg threatened, wiggling aggressively to break the stronghold. He was not swayed as he felt Mycroft snuffle laughter into his back and thrust a slowly hardening cock against his backside.

But after a few seconds, Mycroft’s arms around him loosened, and Greg took the opportunity to turn and flip his own personal ice pack over, pinning him with a glare.

“I know it’s not sexy to wear socks to bed...but we…” He leaned down to kiss his lover as punctuation between each word of his decree, “are...going...to have...to negotiate.”

He paused then, looking deeply into Mycroft’s eyes, and his breath stuttered at the depth of feeling he saw on display there. He moved a hand to press Mycroft’s fringe back off his forehead, the leaned down to brush their noses together, holding their lips together so they brushed as he said, “I’d love to see you in nothing but your socks and garters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's the cold-footed one in your bed? It's definitely me, but I wear socks and sometime slippers until I've warmed up, thank you very much!


	21. Explanatory Note

I've decided to stop with the prompt fills at a nice, even twenty. I will be posting the individual stories (Molly/Greg, Greg/Mycroft, Parentlock, and John/Sherlock) separately to make them easier to find via ship searches, and I already have a lot more of the Masseur story drafted. So stay tuned for that one :)

I hope everyone had a bit of a happier December due to these stories. I know I did! Happy Fandom New Year to all!


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